


Losing Things, Finding Things

by Areiton



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dean is a Good Brother, Dean-Centric, Pre-Series, Time travel Castiel, Young Dean Winchester, Young Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-13
Updated: 2016-09-13
Packaged: 2018-08-14 21:19:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8029273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Areiton/pseuds/Areiton
Summary: Dad goes away all the time. But when the Impala comes back this time, it's not with Dad. It's with a blue eyed stranger who feels familiar, and has the worst kind of news.





	Losing Things, Finding Things

****

 

 

_Part 1. Lost Boys_

 

We were out of milk.

Maybe not the end of the world but since we ran out of spaghetti four days ago and noodles yesterday, it was beginning to feel like that. I stare at the empty jug, a sick sense of dread settling in my stomach. It had been three weeks since Dad dumped me and Sammy in this shit motel and taken off for parts unknown.

It's not the longest he's ever been gone--there was that two month stretch last year--but it is the longest we've ever been alone. Every time before he dropped us off at Bobby's or with Pastor Jim before he vanished.

But this time, there wasn't time. Big things on the move. And here we are, in a motel room that feels smaller every day. It's close enough to walk to the library so every day or so I shove Sam into something that doesn't smell too bad and walk over there to let him listen to story hour. He invariably talks me into getting him something, and then uses his fucking puppy dog eyes to talk the little old ladies into letting us slip out without a library card.

I woulda just stolen them but Sam gave me that severe, _no Dean_ glare that is scarily serious for a four-year-old.

He keeps that shit up, he'll be hell to deal with when he's a teenager.

But right now he's still sleeping and my problem isn't Sam’s bitch face in ten years. It's now. That he's going to wake up soon and he'll be hungry and I've got dry cereal and not a clue what to feed him for dinner.

I could go to the store. Steal a few cans of soup. It's not a lot and it won't work for long but if might be enough to get us through another day or so.

“Dean,” Sam calls, his voice all high and rippling with sleep still, that foggy half there state. It jerks me out of my worry and I toss the empty carton aside to move to his bed.

My bed. Little dude got scared and climbed into bed with me before I fell asleep. I had grumbled a little as he curled against me, all heavy hot limbs and damp puffs of breath against my neck as I watched the Late Show.

I complained but it made me feel better, to have him so close, especially when the trucks on the highway rumbled through the night and the ladies down the street clacked by our window with heavy voiced men in tow.

In hindsight, Dad picked a _really_ shit hotel for us.

“Hey, Sammy,” I whisper, sitting next to him. “How'd you sleep, buddy?”

And like every day, he rubs his eyes and blinks at me. “Dad here?”

I hate this. Hate. It. Hate that his face will fall and that I can’t say anything but--

“Nah, Sammy. Not yet. Maybe tonight though.”

And in the moment before I tug him out of bed and push him to the bathroom to pee and brush his teeth, I see disappointment and a flash of anger in his eyes.

And I can't help but agree with him.

 

i.

 

After I feed him dry cereal and make him shower, I situate Sam in front of cartoons and take the dirty laundry to the bathroom.

If I did have money, I'd buy food and not wash our dirty shorts but man, I hate doing this.

I'm halfway through and cursing under my breath when I hear it.

Sam does too and he shrieks my name before lunging for the door. I catch him by the collar of his shirt and toss him back on the bed as I scramble for my knife and peer out the window.

There she is. Rumbling up to the door, sleek and curved and _dirty?_

_What the hell, Dad?_

He puts it in park, but he doesn't emerge and that.

That scares me.

Because there is something very wrong about the Impala being dirty and Dad, after three weeks away, not rushing in.

I mean, he'd usually rush in with a bottle and focus on it after he gave me and Sam a quick inspection, but it didn't change that he _did_ come inside.

He didn't sit still and waiting in the car.

Then the door swung open and he unfolded himself and

_“Fuck!”_

“Dean!” Sam yelps, startled, and I realize he's pushing against me, anxious to see Dad and his little face is pulled into a disapproving frown. “Dad said not to say _fuck._ _”_

“Sam, go to the bathroom,” I say and he goes still. Watching. His eyes big and serious and assessing. I see the shadow of the hunter he’ll become, in that face.

At four, my brother shouldn't ever look like that. But then again, at four, my brother has heard the screams of too many monsters dying.

When I was four--

I shake my head, shake the thought and shove my knife in his hand. “Go. Lock the door and if anyone but me comes in, stab them and run. Do you hear me?”

He nods once. Takes the knife and retreats to the bathroom door before throwing me a worried stare. I flash a smile that doesn't feel reassuring. “It's fine. Go, Sammy.”

Nerves are singing along my skin but I wait until the door is shut and I hear the satisfying click of the lock and then.

Then.

I pick up the 9mm and yank open the door.

The man is tall. Kinda nerdy looking. Wears a rumpled suit and loose blue tie and a trench coat. Messy brown - black hair and eyes.

Blue.

So fucking blue that as he stares at me, I almost forget.

Because they're bright with worry and something I don't understand.

And he's fucking _covered_ in blood.

My gun swings up, and I'm proud of myself. As much as I want to shake, it doesn't.

“Who the hell are you?” I demand.

His head tilts and a smile tugs, so fucking briefly, at his lips. “Hello, Dean.”

For some reason that pisses me off more. Because he's acting like he knows me. Like he has any fucking right to talk to me like he knows me.

I shove the gun higher. “Who. The hell. _Are._ You?”

He hesitates, for just a moment. And then, “My name is Cas. I'm a friend of your father’s.”

The gun wavers then. “Where is he?” I whisper. Because if he’s a friend of Dad’s, and he’s driving the Impala—I don’t want to follow that thought to where it’s gonna take me. I don’t want to face the logical conclusion.

“Do you want to sit down?” He asks, and I hear the thread of worry in his deep voice.

“Tell me,” I grit out, and he nods.

And then, slowly and gently, as carefully as he can.

He does.

 

ii.

 

There isn’t an easy way to hear it. Not really. Cas explains in a voice that is clinical and flat.

A tulpa.

Dad made a mistake and Cas wasn’t fast enough. The claws ripped him up, too bad for Cas to put back together.

He died in a dirty bathroom, in a deserted hotel, alone except for this strange, formal man who I’ve never seen.

After, I’m left staring. Slumped on the bed, the gun dangling between my knees. Cas stands, awkward and anxious a few steps away.

“Did you burn the body?” I ask. My stomach hurts. This deep ache that reminds me of the months after---

After the fire.

Everything changed. But I remember feeling this. A deep ache that hurt my stomach and made me want to curl around it.

Then, I used to curl around Sam in the backseat of the Impala and whisper all the things I loved about Mom, while the blanket soaked up my tears.

Shit.

_Sam_.

“No. I brought it here. I thought you would want to be there,” Cas says, soft.

He’s right.

There’s only one hunter funeral, and without seeing it myself, I’d wonder.

“Can we wait? Until tonight.” I ask, and Cas’s eyebrows raise, surprise rippling across his face. “Sam,” I say, the only explanation.

Understanding cascades over his face and he nods.

“Of course, Dean,” he says.

I give him a nod of thanks and then, “What happens now?”

This is the important question. I don’t know shit about this guy. Bringing Dad home to be taken care of is one thing, but I don’t know him and I don’t trust him.

I sure as fuck don’t trust him with Sam.

“We’ll take you to Bobby Singer. That was written in your father’s journal.”

That loosens some of the fear in my gut. Because as bad as things are, Bobby will take care of us. He’ll take care of Sam.

I nod, and he shifts. “I _am_ sorry, Dean.”

Then he slips away, to take the body god only knows where.

And I’m left with the crushing truth.

My father is dead.

And I have to tell my brother.

 

iii.

 

There’s a lot of things in life I’ve hated.

Mom dying. Living in the Impala. Dad being gone so much.

But the worst. The very worst thing in the whole world is going to that damn bathroom.

Sam is sitting on the edge of the tub, his little legs barely reaching the ground, my knife clenched in his fist. He holds it the way I taught him: firm, but comfortable, blade down and balanced.

It looks so weird in his little hand, and when he sees me, he drops it, jerking up and throwing himself in my arms.

He’s shaking. Scared. _Shit_. I shove the door shut and pull him into my lap as I slide to the ground, ignoring the dirty floor and my gun and knife, and even the wet clothes that I forgot when I heard Baby rumble up.

Nothing matters but this amazing kid in my lap, who has nothing else now.

We’re it.

Me and Sam. Against a world full of monsters.

I almost break down then.

“Where’s Dad, Dean?” Sam asks, his voice high and frightened. And that grounds me. Because my brother needs me, more than he has in the past, and I’ll never let him down.

I don’t care what else changes.

I won’t ever let Sammy down.

“You know I’ll never leave you, right Sammy?”

He goes stiff in my arms. Smart kid. His eyes are wide and afraid when he looks up and his lip is trembling. Big tears well and fall over his fat baby cheeks, but he chokes out, “Yeah, Dean. I know.”

I nod and hug him tight. Rip the band aid off.

“Dad’s gone, buddy. It’s just us now.”

And then I hold him tight, while he falls apart, shaking and sobbing. And if I cry, well. No one can see. It’s all into Sam’s hair, and I’ve got myself under control, the big brother Sam needs, before Cas comes back and tells us it’s time.

 

 

_Part 2.  Some Things Change._

 

Cas doesn’t say much. If he objects to me bringing Sam, he doesn’t say that either. He merely watches us slip into the Impala, and waits patiently while I fuss over Sam. He’s sniffling and clingy and whimpers when I try to pull away and sit in the front.

A frown flickers across Cas’s face when I stay in the back with Sam, but he doesn’t comment.

The place is in the middle of nowhere, a little grove hidden behind some trees. It’s a small pyre, as these things go. And the body is wrapped up, tight, so we can’t see him.

I’m glad. Sam doesn’t need to see Dad like that.

He’s quiet, almost stoic next to me as Cas lights the pyre, his hand clenching and unclenching on mine convulsively. But he doesn’t cry. After all of the tears in the bathroom, he fell asleep and he hasn’t cried since.

I wonder if this is the right way to let him deal. He’s four. Watching his father burn is some traumatic shit.

He has me, though. I’m not gonna check out, not like Dad did, after we watched Mom burn.

That has to count for something.

Sam has always been mine, to take care of. Since that awful night, he’s been mine. And now.

Well, now it’s just official. So when he clings to me, all baby monkey strength wrapped around my leg, I let him. And when he slumps, exhausted as the fire dies, I scoop him up.

Cas watches us while I carry him back to the Impala, and then I rejoin him by the fire.

“Would you like a moment?” Cas asks, softly.

“No. Nothing to say to him, now. He’s gone.” I feel the gaze Cas slides my way, but I turn and trudge back to the car before he can say anything.

I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to hear how much Dad loved us, or whatever other useless thing he has to say.

It doesn’t matter. Love us or not, he’s gone.

And I’m here, with a kid to take care of. So I can’t worry about how Dad felt or what he wanted for me.

Right now, all I want is to get to Bobby’s.

Maybe when I’m there, I can finally fall apart.

Maybe.

 

i.

 

We don’t go back to the motel.

Cas pulls the Impala onto the road after the fire is well and truly dead, points her toward the Sioux Falls and drives.

I’m exhausted, numb, so overwhelmed by everything and the pressing worry about Sam, that when he looks at me, blue eyes gentle and knowing, and says, “Sleep,” I don’t argue. I curl against the seat and keep one eye on Sam as the gentle, familiar rhythm of the road under Baby’s tires lull me under.

It doesn’t last long. I wake with a scream trapped in my throat, and Cas’s anxious eyes on me.

Which is weird. Cas is pretty stoic, from what I’ve seen. Panic written across his face is unusual.

“Sam,” I gasp and look back.

He’s sprawled, all loose baby limps, across the back seat, and Cas’s trench coat is draped over him.

“He looked cold,” is all he says to explain it.

I nod a silent thanks, and we drive in silence. “How long do you think?”

“We’ll be there tomorrow afternoon.” Cas says, shifting.

“Good. That’s good.”

Another long beat of silence, and then, “What will you do, now, Dean?”

Why does it feel like he cares? Like when he says my name, he says it with a familiarity that border on creepy.

Who the hell is this guy and how does he know me?

“I’m going to keep hunting. The way Dad taught me. I’m gonna take care of Sam and I’m gonna keep us at Bobby’s until the old man kicks us out.” I shrug. “What else is there to do?”

He’s quiet for a long time and then, “You could not hunt.”

I look at Cas. At the anxious movements of his hands on the wheel, and the way he’s watching me without watching me.

Like this matters. Or my answer does. Something.

“No. I can’t.”

He does look at me then, and I see the sadness in his eyes. “Dean,” he begins, and then he sighs. Shakes his head. “No. I suppose, even now, you are a hunter.”

That doesn’t make a lot of sense, but he doesn’t seem to see—or care—about the questioning look I give him, and he outright ignore my _what the hell, dude?_

Cas just sighs and mutters to himself, too low for me to hear, and drives us through the night.

 

 

_Part 3. I_ _’ll be Your Guardian_

 

Bobby is MIA. That’s the first thing we realize, even before Cas puts the Impala in park in the junk filled lot that always feels so comforting and _home_.

Except that today, it feels empty and deserted and not what I need at all because Sam is still waking up in the back seat, and the house looks.

Untouched.

I slide a glance at Cas. “He isn’t here,” I say, and the man’s lips compress into a thing line.

“I see that,” he says, stiffly.

“Dean?” Sam says leaning over the seat and peering up at the house with big worried eyes.

He’s looked like that for days now. All big worried brown eyes and downturned mouth. I hate seeing that there. The persistent worry and the brave, broken smile he summons when I frown.

Maybe that’s why seeing the house all deserted and unwelcoming hits so hard. Why it settles ice in my belly like a big unshakeable rock.

Cas releases a small sigh and leans back against the seat. I watch him for a moment, seeing something like frustration flit across his normally blank face. Then it's gone and he's just staring and what good will that do. Sammy bounces silent in the backseat, that familiar _I gotta pee can't bug Dad_ dance that annoys me and goads me into action.

I reach over and snag the keys from the ignition.

“Come on, Sam,” I order, pushing open the door with a low squeal. He scrambles out after me, and darts up to the door, bouncing in place anxiously as I unlock it, and then he’s shoving inside.

Bobby quit leaving the place booby trapped after Dad got caught in one. Not that he minded the old man getting caught, but he’d never risk it happening to me or Sam. Instead, he has the house warded, salt embedded in the walls, and demon traps painted under every inch of the place. The floorboards a puzzle pieced together of protections.

But we walk across it without problem and Sam makes a little whoop of triumph when he reaches the bathroom.

And it loosens some of the fear. Not all of it, of course. There are too many dangling questions, too many what happens next, to be comfortable. But seeing my brother easing into a comfort zone--that helps. That tells me more than anything that being _here_ is right.

Cas steps in behind us, and the lingering fear that he wasn't a hunter, that he was something _more_ , a monster, eases.

He couldn't be here, if he were.

But.

“You don't have to stay,” I say, shifting between him and the hallway Sam went down.

Cas frowns, his eyes sliding past me and then back. “You don't have to protect him from me,” he says, so soft I could ignore it.

I don't. I stare at him, and whatever he sees makes him sigh. “I don't know you, Cas. Dad never mentioned you. And I think I can trust you.”

“But you won't trust me with Sam.”

“No offense but I don't trust anyone with Sam,” I say and it's that simple. A tiny smile curls his lips.

“Some things, it seems, will never change.”

I frown at that, but Cas turns away and heads for the door.

“I'll stay until Bobby returns.”

 

i.

 

And he does. It takes a week. Seven days of the silent nerd in the corner of the room, watching and watching and watching.

Seven nights of screaming Sammy, bolting upright in bed before he dissolved, sobbing, into me.

Seven mornings of silent breakfast that I almost sleep through because I'm so tired from taking care of Sam that I'm surprised I'm upright.

And every day, Cas gives me this searching stare as I follow Sam downstairs, as if to say _will you trust me?_

I ignore it.

It's the seventh day, and Sam is watching Looney Toons while I sit on the couch. I'm paying attention. Really. But one minute, the kid is laughing at the TV and the next I hear screaming.

High and shrill and _Sammy._

I fucking fell asleep and Sam is gone and _screaming_.

I snatch the gun Bobby keeps strapped under the couch and hit the door at a flat sprint, my brother’s name half formed on my lips.

And come to a dead stop.

In the car strewn yard, Cas is pinned to the ground, my brother suspended above him, tiny body braced on his hands, head tossed back in the fading light, shrieking and laughing.

All the tension drains out of me as I stare, because it’s the first time, since the Impala rumbled up to the hotel door, that I’ve seen my brother laughing.

Completely free of those damn shadows that have been a constant thing since he curled against me on the bathroom floor.

Until I see it, I don’t think I know how much I’ve missed it.

Until I see it, I don’t think I know how much I’ve wondered if it’d come back.

“It’s good to see Sam laugh,” a gruff voice jerks my attention away from Cas and Sam and to Bobby, sitting on the edge of the porch, a beer in his hand as he watches.

It’s familiar—a protective sort of watchfulness I recognize because I wear it so often.

And that loosens some more of the tension. Because he’s here, and if there’s one thing I’m sure of, it’s that Bobby will take care of everything.

Sam is safe, and laughing. Bobby is _here._

There might be a lot wrong still, but for the first time, something is going right.

I drop heavy next to him on the porch, and he doesn’t say anything as I watch my still giggling brother.

“You been back long?”

“Few hours. You looked like you needed the sleep.”

Means Cas was alone with Sam for a couple hours before Bobby’s arrival.

In the yard, Cas’s eyes skip to mine. _He_ _’s fine. Trust me._

And because I have no choice, because Sam does, Sam who trusts no one, because Cas is, even now, careful and gentle with my brother, steering him around sharp metal and things he would fall on, I finally.

Finally.

Nod. _Ok, Cas. Ok._

And he smiles, this big thing that is almost blinding, almost startled.

Then he turns away, back to my brother, and Bobby asks.

“Who is he? And where is your old man?”

 

_Part 4. In Another Lifetime_.

 

Bobby accepts Dad’s death without blinking. I know he and Cas talk, but they push me out, much to my annoyance.

Not when it comes to Sam and what will happen to him, because no one is so stupid to think that will fly.

But within a few days, we’re settled in fully. And there is a shift. A new tension to Cas as he sits in the room with us, or on the porch after Sam is sleeping.

He’s leaving. He’s done what he promised, got us here, to safety, to someone who will take care of us. And now it’s time for him to move on, like we did so many times, after hunting some monster down.

Weird, but I think I’ll miss the nerdy little dude.

Still. It’s not too surprising that he finds me, a few days after Bobby’s returned. He appears on the porch after Bobby retreats, and I look at him sideways as he sits on the steps next to me.

“You’re leaving,” I say, refocusing on the stars.

“You no longer need me.”

Fair. Still sucks. I don’t say that. Don’t say that I’m not ready to lose another person, not yet.

“You will _try_ to be happy, won’t you?”

It’s such an odd question I glance at him, a question in my eyes. And Cas gives me that blue crinkled smile, all cryptic and indecipherable.

“Does that matter to you?”

“More than you could possible imagine, Dean,” he answers.

Silence eases around us, and all the questions I’ve been ignoring are pushing against my teeth, begging to be asked, and I can’t.

There are too many and not nearly enough time, and he won’t answer anyway.

“Who are you?” I ask, finally.

And he sighs, slumping, some of his weight resting against me.

“In another life, I am your friend. You…” he hesitates, and then, “You. And Sam. Are the most important people in my life.”

He sighs again, and stands. Slips off the porch and shoves his hands into his pockets. And I already feel his loss, a panicked pressure building in my chest. “Goodbye, Dean.”

“Wait,” I say, and he hesitates, but it’s tense. Like he doesn’t want to. Like he knows better. “Will I see you again?”

So many things slide across his face. Grief and hope and fear and this aching loss that stuns me. “One day.”

I look away, struggling to wrap my head around all of this, around all of the puzzles, and in then I look up.

And Cas is gone.

 

i.

 

I see him in dreams, over the years. When shit gets bad on a hunt, or when I’ve very happy, and sometimes, when there is no reason at all. I dream of a pond, and fishing. A long dock, and a blue eyed smile topped with messy dark hair and that deep, warm, _Hello, Dean._

But it will be years. A fucking lifetime. Until I see him again, in person. Long enough that when he does stalk into that barn, my father behind me, my brother beside me, and gives me a stony stare.

I tell myself it’s not real.

He isn’t that man. Not the one who walked me through the darkest weeks of my young life. He isn’t the man I’ve dreamt of in the years since, who always asks, _Are you happy._

He isn’t.                                                

Sam doesn’t remember. Neither does Bobby. And my memories are faded enough that I sometimes think they were right—that Pastor Jim brought us to Bobby’s house, and there never was a Cas.

But then.

His head tilts, and his eyes search mine, achingly familiar…

And I wonder.

 

 

 

 


End file.
